


If Only Things Were Different

by Eiri_zabeth



Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Gen, Human!Nicolas, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It may be an alternative universe but Domenico's still a bad father, Nicolas can hear, Twilight!Worick, Worick's eye hurts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiri_zabeth/pseuds/Eiri_zabeth
Summary: Nicolas, a human boy, lives with his father, Captain Brown, and his mercenary troop. Growing up among humans, he's got a vague idea of what these twilight monsters are supposed to look like.Wallace, a young twilight, lives confined in the house of a father who hates every single thing about him and is daily a victim of neglect. Being so, he can only imagine what life's like out the mansion's gates.The two boys are brought together by fate, and the rest everyone knows — tragedy ensues.





	If Only Things Were Different

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you for reading!  
English is not my first language, but I did my best and I hope it's readable (oh boy, I do hope so...)

Mercenary life wasn't an easy one, but certainly, it wasn't boring as well. There was always a war to fight, things to shot, people to kill and, by the end of it all, money would be waiting for the ones who managed to stay alive. 

This being said, mercenary life wasn't for everyone — only the strongest individuals were deserving of it. 

Even if they were a young, scrawny boy. 

Growing up, Nicolas didn't have much. In all honesty, he didn't even have a house to call his own. His home was wherever his father and his mercenary group were supposed to be, and it could vary from abandoned building to cheap hotels and, sometimes, tents in the woods. However, as long as he stayed on his father's sight, he felt safe. The mere presence of the man smelled like home to him. That was good enough.

Toys weren't much of a thing too, so when he found himself bored, Nicolas made it do with simpler things: sticks, small rocks, some lost bullets left behind on the battlefield and that he kept in his pockets. Captain Gaston Brown wasn't a man of fun and games, but he had his fair share of laughs watching his son throwing stones at tomato sauce cans he'd put on a wooden box near their tent. 

"God, your aim is terrible, boy," he said, grinning. The other mercenaries sitting around followed with a sea of laughter, commenting on Nicolas' incapacity. They thought it was hilarious, having a small brat running everywhere with them. 

He was easy maintenance, though. Nicolas ate very little, was obedient and silent, and always made sure not to disturb the Captain or anyone, for the matter. He answered when spoken to, did as he was told to, and was growing up as he was supposed to. This way, having the kid with the group was odd, but never annoying. 

"Hey, Captain, how old is he again?" one of the new men asked. He was amused when his eyes laid on Nicolas for the first time, looking at the short boy the same way one looks at a lost puppy. Turns out the "puppy" was his new boss' son, who would become, in the future, one of them. A mercenary from the crib. 

“Six,” Gaston answered. His good eye follows one more stone flying above the cans, and he decides that's it. The boy's learning, someone ought to guide the way. He walks from his seat near the fire and gets on his knees behind Nicolas, holding his son's wrist and shaking it a little bit. 

"You're too stiff. You're just throwing it without any care. This way you'll never hit the right spot."

The mercenaries watch as Nicolas nods eagerly, listening to his father's every word. Gaston adjusts his arm and hand, giving him instructions on how to aim. As soon as the Captain gets up again, the boy throws the stone and it hits the middle can, even if a bit to the right. Nonetheless, he did it. 

Nicolas looks up, searching for approval, and it comes in the shape of a faint smile on his father's lips. His eyes widen and shine, and he promptly goes to get more stones. 

"He learns fast," another mercenary says, sipping his beer. 

"He has to," Gaston shrugs. "Either he learns or he dies. Even if he's a kid now, he needs to know not to step on bombs, 'cause I won't be there for him all the time." 

"You've got a lot of patience with him, though, having to teach him everything." 

"It's worth it."

Gaston sits again but turns his head every so often to see how little Nic's doing. From the sound alone, he can tell the brat has got the hang of it. 

"I've seen grown men who can't throw a grenade to save their damn lives. One day, this boy will be a soldier of mine, and he'll throw _my_ grenades. I have to make sure he won't waste _my_ stuff." 

The men laugh again and agree. Even if life is as tiring as theirs were, it's easier to laugh when you're kinda drunk — or when you're a six-year-old who plays with rocks and has just made your father proud. 

It's been three days since Wallace last ate. 

He took his pills yesterday morning, though. So things could be worse.

Except they are. 

Going days without food not only made him hungry but sick too. It's a horrible combination that makes Wallace dizzy and nervous. And the windows — they have been closed since his last meal, which makes the boy realize that he wasn't sure how many days have passed. Maybe three, but perhaps four. 

He's laying on the old metal bed, on his side, knees close to his chest. The position doesn't help with the nausea, but it does wonders to his mental state. Making himself smaller gives him a feeling of safeness, and that's all Wallace wants right now. 

He's been listening to the sounds around the mansion, his sensitive ears peeking on bits of conversation and hurried steps around the corridors. Something is happening and is making his father angry. This could only mean one thing: soon or later, he'd come down to see Wallace. 

_Oh, God, help him._

As he moves on the bed, pressing his back to the cold wall, the blond boy thinks that he would endure his father's beating better if only he could have more pills. They made him stronger, his eyes even hurt less. But there was a deal between his father and the doctor: two pills every three days, or, if the symptoms of abstinence were bad, half pills every day until he was back to normal. Not easy maintenance, but they made it so. Wallace didn't have a say on anything, anyway. 

In seven years, he never had. 

So later that day, when the door slams open and a groggy silhouette carrying a bottle comes in, breathing heavily and snarling, Wallace prepares for impact. 

Although he's young and malnourished, he's taller than expected. A characteristic he got from the man who is now holding him in place by the hair and beating him like it was some kind of hobby.

(Maybe it was.)

Aside from the height, Wallace didn't resemble his father at all. He didn't have his hair color, eyes, face shape. His father was not born sick as he was. He was his mother from head to toe, and that only made the man angrier. 

"Quit looking at me like that," he spits, staring at his son's bloodied nose. "It's like looking at that whore mother of yours again."

It's always like that.

“F-father…” Wallace tries to plead, but his head is shoved against the hard wall with full force. 

“Shut this fucking mouth!” Domenico shouts back. “Don't you ever speak to me again, dirty twilight!”

Always, every single time… Like that.

The tag inside his shirt is cool against his skin. It tells the basics: his name (no surname, because he got no family), blood type, birth date and who he belongs to. It's all that's to know about people like him. The tag doesn't mention the pain that comes with being alive. 

His father leaves after some more punches, and by morning, when he's no longer drunk and angry and comes down again to check on Wallace, he will notice the bloodstains on the sheets, on the wall, on the boy's shirt and pants, in his eyes. He will look at Wallace as one would look at wounded but mangy dog — with equal disgust and pity. 

Without touching the boy this time, he will go to the doctor's office and tell him to "do something about the little beast, before it can make an even bigger mess". The doctor, in his early fifties, will bring gauze and painkillers, and try to clean the boy's face and hands without causing more pain. He will tell Wallace that he is sorry, that his job depends on Mr. Arcangelo and he can only do so much for him. Wallace will nod, because he understands. It wasn't only him, but everyone in that mansion lived under Arcangelo's shadow. He just happens to be the perfect punch bag.

When everything is done, the doctor opens the windows, as he was ordered to as well, and goes back to his office. Minutes later, a maid knocks on the door and slides a plate inside. 

It has a big cup of milk, a piece of bread covered in butter, a sliced apple and a single cookie. To decorate the plate, two pills Wallace recognize immediately. He feels too sick to eat, but he better eat now. Who knows when his father will have the mercy again.

Breakfast tastes sweet and salty to his tongue, but bitter to his mind. As the pills and food go down, his sickness fastly disappears. Now Wallace only feels tired, so tired he could die. 

He lays back on the bed, and the sheets smell like neglect and hate. His eyes slowly close, heavy and irritated from crying and lack of medicine and, even though it's already morning, he sleeps again in no time, hoping nobody would come by one more time. 

Knees to his chest, back to the wall, the young boy sights. This time, he has no nightmares, but unreachable dreams of a world where his hands are bigger and wrap around Arcangelo's neck easily; where he can sit by the trees and feel the sunlight on his skin; where he has someone to talk to who won't look at him as a pocket-sized monster.

A world without beatings, without pills and without fathers.


End file.
